Reassurances
by DamnI'mRandom
Summary: Sometimes, John wonders whether Sherlock's as invested in their relationship as he is. Sherlock wonders how John could even think that he's not as deeply involved. Established Johnlock.


**Disclaimer:** I obviously own nothing. The BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle do.

**Note:** Don't read if this isn't your cup of tea.

x—x

_This isn't the first time_, his brain sighs resignedly, _and it certainly won't be the last_.

It's their first big quarrel after becoming what conventional people call a 'couple', which John Watson knows they are anything but. They are partners, an infallible team, the Chewbacca to each other's Han Solo, the Rose to each other's Doctor. And the concept of one without the other is completely unimaginable. They are each other's _everything_, and John's heart rings with the veracity of that statement.

But his mind still doubts.

Is Sherlock invested in this, their relationship, as much as he is? He certainly thinks so most of the times, as his boyfriend behaves uncharacteristically well when he thinks John needs him to, and goes out of his way to make him comfortable in any potentially dangerous situation.

But then he thinks over it for a while, and ponders the fact that maybe he's just replacing a case, a _filler_, if you may, since Sherlock hasn't touched a single case since they got together a few weeks ago. Then Sherlock will just toss him aside and take up a new project, leaving John to nurse his irreparably broken heart.

They've argued most of the morning away, whiling their time – John hasn't gone to the hospital for the past five days and Sherlock hasn't moved from his position for the past two. It had started, as it usually did even while they were just friends 'n' flatmates, with the topic of body parts in odd places around the house.

Sherlock, obviously, had constructed his arguments carefully enough while John had flustered and floundered, looking for a way to gain advantage over him.

They're currently taking a break from the monotony of hearing each other counter the other's statements. There is a moment's silence as John collects his thoughts, his doubts, and his nervous energy, comes to the crux of the matter and directs it all at Sherlock.

'Yes, but what'll happen when you get bored of this? Of us?'

'Bored?_'_ Sherlock looks up from his crossword puzzle at the word, narrowing his eyes.

John stays where he is, hands on hips, just this once, towering over the sitting Sherlock.

'_Bored?'_

Sherlock stands and is now dangerously close, his breath ghosting over his exposed neck, and John trembles slightly, letting slip the effect that any aspect of _Sherlock_ has on him. And Sherlock, being Sherlock, notices, of course.

John stands defiant, looking him straight in the eye, trying to convey what he feels through what Sherlock would be able to see in his eyes.

'You think this is all just a petty game to me, that this is some sort of _experiment?_' Sherlock spits the word out as if, for once, it offends him deeply.

No answer.

Sherlock shifts closer, if that is even possible, and positions one hand at the nape of John's neck, the other at his hip.

The fact that Sherlock is looking at him with that half-lidded look filled with a combination of lust, love, adoration and exasperation, a combination that he has seen only once before, diverts most, if not all, the blood in his body to his face and nether regions and makes the hair on the nape of his neck stand to attention.

He hears a nearly-inaudible whisper ring in his ears as clearly as if Sherlock had shouted it to him. 'I would never do that, John. You mean too much to me.'

'And why is that?' John's lips barely move.

Sherlock's lips are on his now, soft but not pressing.

'I think I love you, John.'

'You _think_?' John breathes.

'I _know_.'

And _there_ is the hunger, the demanding passion that he has come to associate with Sherlock Holmes, the _hands-all-over-I-need-this-right-now_ kind of snogging. Exploring every inch of his body, urging him desperately to _get out of those jeans NOW!_

He gasps at the urgency of the task at hand and _shoves_ his trousers and underwear off his legs. He fumbles for a bit with the zipper of Sherlock's dark trousers and rips them off, to find him pants-less and hard as an iron rod.

It's a quick, hot, dirty fuck (there really is no other word for it), and by the end of it, they're lying on top of each other in a panting, sweaty mess in the negligible amount of floor visible among the… mess, and other things. They had both come explosively all over each other and it takes them another _extremely_ satisfying round of shagging and an hour-long shower to clean themselves up thoroughly.

…

Sherlock's eyes are less fierce now, and John's mind is definitely less doubtful. They are lying on Sherlock's bed in the semi-darkness, with John's hand drawing soothing circles on Sherlock's arm and the latter on the verge of much-needed, blissful sleep.

Suddenly, John chuckles. Sherlock stirs sleepily towards the direction of the sound, his right eyebrow inching up by a tiny fraction.

'Thank God for the inventor of make-up sex, because that was the best I've ever had,' John answers, reading his boyfriend's silent question of 'what?'.

Sherlock hums appreciatively, taking John's hand and squeezing it. John is surprised at this display of affection.

He's silent for a while, tracing the lines and contours of Sherlock's drowsy, sleep-veiled, _perfect_ face visible in the moonlight piercing through the window with his eyes.

'Sherlock?'

'Hmm?' His face is beautiful in the half-light.

'… I think I love you, too.'

'You _think?_'

'I _know_.'

Sherlock smiles serenely and gently drifts off to the land of dreams, leaving John to watch over him like he always has.

x—x

**FIN.**


End file.
